Stars and Rockets
by Mandelene
Summary: Matthew has watched his daredevil brother pull reckless stunts for as long as he can remember, but when he gets dragged into one of Alfred's schemes and gets injured as a result, he has to learn that although family can hurt sometimes, it also has the ability to heal.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** Hi, everyone! Sorry it's been nearly a month since I last posted something. I've been in London for the past two weeks on an internship and, as you can probably imagine, things have been hectic. I'll be in London until August but I'll try to keep posting in the meantime. Here's a fic that's actually a combination of a few requests that I received on my Tumblr. Hopefully, you guys enjoy it! Please leave a review letting me know what you think!

P.S. Happy Father's Day!

* * *

"Are you _sure_ this is a good idea?"

This certainly isn't the first time Matthew has asked his brother this question. In the past week alone, Alfred nearly set the kitchen on fire when he tried to turn the microwave into a teleportation device, broke Papa's watch (which he got as a Christmas gift from Dad) because he thought he could make it turn back time, and tied an old satellite dish to the tree in the backyard in order to send messages to aliens in space.

Someone needs to keep Alfred from watching so many sci-fi movies. At this rate, he's going to blow up the house or kill himself during one of his experiments.

And speaking of blowing things up…

His brother has gone to great lengths to assemble the new piece of technology before them. Here they are, out in the yard again on a beautiful spring day, but Matthew can't bring himself to enjoy the weather because he knows Alfred is tinkering with dangerous toys yet again. This particular invention is intended to be a mini rocket-ship, but to Matthew, it just looks like the space shuttle souvenir Papa bought when they went to the Kennedy Space Center last summer attached to a fuse.

"Mattie, if you're going to be such a scaredy-cat about this, just go back inside," Alfred declares, sticking his tongue out a little as he concentrates on getting the wiring of the rocket-ship right.

Alfred's got a big imagination—Matthew will admit that much—but being around him can feel like a hazard in and of itself at times.

Matthew chews anxiously on his lip until it feels sore and looks longingly at the house. He _could_ leave, but then Alfred will tease him and call him a baby for the rest of the day and night.

"All right, Houston, we're ready for takeoff."

Oh, no.

Matthew doesn't want to watch, but he can't peel his eyes away for some reason. It's oddly mesmerizing to observe Alfred as he orchestrates all of this. It's like he's a mad scientist building the globe's next life-changing device at the mere age of fourteen.

To Matthew's horror, Alfred flourishes a match that he likely stole from the kitchen drawer.

"Here goes nothing!" he says, poised to light it, but before he can strike it, he's stopped.

Thank goodness.

 _"Hold it right there, young man! What in the world are you doing?"_ a stern, booming voice suddenly asks, and Alfred immediately slumps his shoulders in disappointment. He's been caught red-handed.

Dad comes to stand beside them, hands on his hips as he waits for an explanation. He steadies a sharp look at Alfred, quickly confiscates the match, and somehow becomes even more cross. "What were you planning to do with this?"

Alfred clicks his tongue and stomps a petulant foot against the grass. "Do ya always have to ruin all of the fun? This is for my physics project."

"You don't have physics. You have biology," Dad says, easily seeing through the lie. He crouches down to inspect the invention in question, picks it up off of the ground, and shakes his head in disbelief. "Where did you get such a foolish idea? What if you had burned yourself? Or what if you had set it off and it managed to injure someone? I leave you alone for twenty minutes and this is what happens?"

" _Daaad_ , it was just an experiment. I was gonna be careful."

"Well, you won't be conducting any more experiments, in that case. This isn't NASA. No more setting off rockets in the yard. Am I understood?"

Alfred sighs. "Yeah, fine…Whatever."

"Don't give me that tone. Clean this up and come inside for lunch."

But Matthew knows Alfred isn't going to stop here. Although his rocket may have been a dud, he'll find some other way to continue being reckless. Tearing things apart and then assembling them back together again is his brother's specialty. He's amazed by copper wires and transistors and getting to the bottom of how things move and function. It's hard to catch Alfred being totally still—even his body is in constant movement.

And while this curiosity can be a good trait to have at times, it has a tendency of getting him into trouble. He'll often do dangerous things just to see what happens, but his intentions are never truly bad.

Matthew can tell that Alfred doesn't care that he could have burned his hand to a crisp just now. It's a sacrifice he would have been willing to make just for the sake of seeing his rocket fire forty feet above the ground.

And that's what scares Matthew most.

* * *

Matthew knows not to get dragged into things...

Well, he _should_ know better than to let himself get dragged into things. Sometimes this is a lesson he has to relearn…

" _Man, I wish I could come but my board's busted…Yeah, I'm waiting to get a new one…Uh-huh…Dude, that'd be great. Yeah, of course, I'm in. I'll meet you there. See ya soon."  
_

Alfred hangs up the call, stuffs his phone into the pocket of his jeans, and starts looking around for a pair of shoes to wear, making a mess of his already disorganized closet as he tosses some old shirts and worn sandals aside.

Meanwhile, Matthew watches him from his bed across the room, disapproval evident in his eyes. He doesn't want to be a snitch, but it's tempting.

"Don't you remember that you're grounded for what you did to the microwave?" he asks Alfred, "and we both know your skateboard isn't broken. You had it taken away after that stunt you pulled."

Matthew knows his brother's skateboard is securely tucked up in Dad and Papa's bedroom. They took it away after Alfred tried to skateboard off of the roof of their house and land in Mr. Carriedo's pool on the other side of the fence separating their two yards.

Papa stopped him before he could attempt the jump, and he very nearly had a panic attack while dragging Alfred back down to safety. Needless to say, Dad and Papa unanimously agreed to forbid Alfred from using it for the foreseeable future—possibly forever.

"Dude, just mind your own business, 'kay?" Alfred huffs, finally finding a suitable pair of sneakers. He aggressively shoves them onto his feet.

Matthew frowns. "I suppose you want me to cover for you?"

"Just don't tell anyone I'm gone. I'll be back before Dad or Papa even notice."

Matthew isn't convinced this is the truth, and he's not looking forward to being an accomplice in another thoughtless scheme. "You're gonna get caught."

"As long as you keep your mouth shut, I won't."

"You're already grounded for like three months. It's not worth it."

"I've got nothing to lose. Being grounded for four or five months makes no difference to me at this point," Alfred reasons, opening the window in their bedroom as far as it will go so he can sneak out. He gets one leg through and is about to bring the other one over as well when suddenly, a new idea strikes him.

"Hey, Matt, bro—my buddy," he beseeches him, puffing his bottom lip into a pout. "Do you wanna go to the skatepark with me? It's a lot of fun, I promise."

"No, I'm not going anywhere."

"It'll look pretty suspicious if I disappear on my own, but if you tell Dad and Papa that we're going to the library to study or something, maybe they'll let me go even though I'm grounded. All you have to do is tell one itty, bitty lie. They'll never know. We'll come home before curfew," Alfred begs, folding his hands and pleading with him to reconsider.

"No, thanks."

"Mattie, _pleeeeease_? Didn't you once tell me that you wanted to learn how to ollie? It'll be fun."

All right, so maybe there was a brief time in Matthew's life when he was fascinated by skateboarding. The tricks and maneuvers look cool, but it's dangerous, and he knows he shouldn't be attempting them. Dad has told him countless stories about kids splitting their lips open or getting permanent brain damage from a bad fall, and he doesn't want to end up like them.

"I can teach you how to ollie, Matt."

"No."

"Fine, you don't have to skateboard, but you can watch Jason and me."

"No."

"You only live once Matthew. If you don't ollie now, you'll never have the chance to again."

"Dad and Papa would kill me."

"They won't know, and even if they do find out, they won't do anything to you. You're the golden child. They'll let you slide one time," Alfred assures him, giving his back a slap of encouragement. "Get some shoes on and let's go. Say we're going to the library to work on an English paper about Shakespeare. It's believable enough. Hurry, before Dad gets home. Papa won't question us as much."

It's stupid. Matthew _should know better_ , and yet, he allows himself to be coerced.

"Fine. Let's go," he mumbles.

* * *

A shiver runs down Matthew's spine when he hears dozens of wheels scraping against the unforgiving cement around them.

Who decided skateparks had to be designed like this? What happened to rubber padding and other safety measures? He looks on in silent shock as one girl comes barreling down the half-pipe, loses her balance along the way, and skids across the ground, scraping her hands and knees.

"On second thought, my stomach's acting kind of funny, Al. I think I have to go," Matthew murmurs, trying to desperately get himself out of this situation.

Alfred yanks him back, slaps a reassuring hand onto his shoulder and exclaims, "Bro, I heard Dad might be cooking dinner tonight, so if you're feeling queasy, home is the last place you'll want to be right now."

"Al, I really don't think—!"

His protests are, once again, ignored. Alfred high-fives his skater friends and gets into some sort of loud, cheerful conversation with them while Matthew self-consciously stands off to the side, trying to brainstorm feasible ways in which he could slip away from here undetected.

If he goes home without Alfred, Papa will know they didn't go to the library, and he'll end up grounded as well. If he stays here, he's going to see Alfred get himself injured somehow and have to be a witness to his recklessness yet again, and Matthew really doesn't like seeing blood or bruises.

"Hey, Matt, long time no see!" one of Alfred's friends—a sophomore named Jason—says.

From what Matthew has heard at school, Jason's home life isn't that great at the moment, and maybe that's why Alfred has been spending so much time with him lately. In fact, Matthew was beginning to think Alfred was over his whole "skater phase." Perhaps he has just been trying to protect a friend, which makes Matthew feel _slightly_ better about everything.

He shakes Jason's hand and waves to two other boys who seem to know Alfred as well, but before Matthew can properly acquaint himself with everyone, Alfred grabs a skateboard from one of his buddies and starts trying to flaunt his skills.

He successfully shows off a kickflip and an ollie, but of course, that's not daring enough to satiate Alfred's hunger for danger. Without bothering to put on a helmet or elbow and knee pads, he dives down the halfpipe on his board to gain some speed and starts doing tricks in mid-air. The entire time, Matthew keeps his fingers crossed and hopes his brother doesn't fall.

When Alfred's done making a spectacle out of himself, Matthew lets out a breath of relief and hopes that's that. Now they can spend the rest of the day doing non-life-threatening things.

"Hey, they finished renovating that big set of stairs on the corner, I bet that'd be a good place to grind," Jason suggests, and Alfred is all for it.

Matthew doesn't think much of it at first. After all, how much more perilous could a staircase be?

But then he sees the fifteen large steps for his own eyes and how they're just a yard or so away from a busy road with tons of cars.

Matthew isn't sure how he can sense what's about to happen, but his body reacts out of something akin to instinct. As soon as Alfred hops onto the stair railing and starts grinding his way down, sirens go off in Matthew's head and he poises himself at the base of the steps, waiting to catch his brother who he knows is about to go careening into the oncoming traffic.

Sure enough, the momentum at which Alfred is going is too powerful for him to stop on the sidewalk. He flings forward, but Matthew jumps in front of him and blocks his path, shielding him from imminent death.

However, what Matthew doesn't take into account is that the weight of Alfred's body crashing against his will send him falling backward as well, and he gets knocked onto the road.

He hears a honk, and a millisecond later, his back connects with the bumper of someone's black BMW, which he only realizes once he's lying on the ground. He hears Alfred and his friends scream out but he can't seem to scream back.

A bright hot flash of pain passes over him and everything gets blurry before he loses consciousness.

* * *

"Francis, you said I could cook today."

" _Oui_ , but that was before I found out you came into contact with a patient with measles."

"Oh, nonsense. I come into contact with those sorts of diseases every day and you've never been concerned about it before. You know I disinfect myself every time I come into the house. Have you caught anything from me yet?"

"Well, no, but still…"

"You _said_ I could make shepherd's pie," Arthur reminds before stretching out his arms behind his back to get some circulation into his sore limbs. "Admit it, you just don't want me to cook. Are you afraid the boys will like it more than your food?"

Francis snorts but tries to conceal it behind a cough. "No, _mon cher_ , of course not. This is not a competition, but the boys are out today and you know how they are—they'll probably have something to eat on their way back and won't want dinner anyway. I don't want you to slave away over a hot oven for no reason."

"How considerate of you," Arthur drones, unconvinced. "Where did you say they were off to again? The library?"

" _Oui_ , something about an English paper involving Shakespeare."

"And you believed them?"

"Should I not have?"

Arthur takes a sip of tea from the warm mug Francis hands him and shakes his head. "I find it hard to believe Alfred would go to the library with Matthew unless we specifically told him to do so."

Francis frowns and sits across from Arthur at the kitchen table, resting his legs. "What you're saying is that I've been lied to?"

"Most likely."

"But what if Alfred has taken a liking to Shakespeare?"

Arthur chuckles and rolls his eyes. He's sure even Francis knows he's in denial. "If that's what you want to believe…"

"Why would Matthew lie to me?"

"For the same reason he ever lies—Alfred has persuaded him into doing something foolish," Arthur says, glancing at his watch. "I'm sure we'll be finding out about whatever it is they're doing fairly soon. Rehearse your best stern tone."

Francis puts a hand on his hip and glowers. "You know, I can be just as stern as you when I want to be."

Arthur hums, still not particularly convinced. He finishes the rest of his tea and shuts his eyes for a moment. "Given that we're going to have to expend most of our energy on lecturing the boys tonight, I suppose I can cook another day…"

Kudos to Francis for making sure not to look _too_ triumphant.

Then, Arthur's phone begins to vibrate.

He pulls it out of his pocket and sighs when he reads the caller ID. "It's Alfred."

"Okay, I think I'm feeling stern enough now. You can answer," Francis jokes, folding his hands on the table and waiting expectantly for the news.

Arthur obliges by picking up. "Hello, Alfred—it's all right, I know you're not at the library…What's wrong? Take a deep breath. Are you hurt…?" he asks, immensely worried by how hysterical his son sounds on the other end of the line. "I can't understand a word you're saying, love. Start from the begin—"

Arthur's hand shakes violently, and Francis shoots him a look of confusion.

"Which hospital, Alfred…? Okay, we're on our way," he assures before setting his phone down on the table and raising his petrified gaze up to gape at Francis. "Get the keys to the car. Matthew's been in an accident."

The color drains out of Francis's cheeks as he jumps out of his chair. "An accident? What accident?"

Arthur tries to steady his voice as he says, "He was hit by a car."

* * *

 _This is all your fault._

Alfred sobs into the sleeve of his sweater for the hundredth time, feeling lightheaded from all of the anxiety and grief coursing through his veins. He didn't mean for this to happen. He didn't think Matthew would jump in front of him or that he wouldn't be able to bring the skateboard to a stop in enough time.

But that doesn't matter now, does it? Matthew's hurt, and it's all because he was being stupid and wanted to show off some dumb tricks.

He won't be surprised if Dad and Papa say they hate him now or that they want him to move out. He can't stand to face himself either. If it weren't for him, Matthew would still be at home, peacefully reading a book or something and not suffering in this pediatric ICU.

"Oh, honey…" one of the nurses says when she sees him weeping. She glances at the doors leading to the unit and then back at him before murmuring, "Are your parents on their way?"

Alfred nods his head and sloppily wipes his eyes. Everything feels heavy—like the air is trying to crush him—and it makes him want to puke.

The nurse hands him a small packet of tissues and asks, "Do you want some water or juice?"

He shakes his head.

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do for you, okay?" the nurse insists, placing a hand on his upper arm and rubbing it soothingly.

She doesn't say it's going to be okay or that he doesn't have to worry, which is a harrowing sign of how bad things must be. Alfred has parsed Dad's words in situations like these and normally, whenever something isn't too serious or critical, he's always quick to say, "it's all right."

But it's clearly not going to be all right this time if the nurse isn't making such promises.

 _It's all your fault._

He hiccups and buries his head into his knees, wishing he could turn back time. He can't unsee the moment when the car connected with Matthew's side—how he was lying huddled on the asphalt afterward, blood running down the side of his temple and how his eyes rolled back into his head.

He stands up from his seat in the waiting area and finally vomits in the nearest trashcan, bile burning his throat as it rushes into his mouth.

Then, the doors to one of the shiny elevators on his right slides open, and Dad and Papa appear, pale as ghosts.

"Alfred, come here," Dad immediately says when they lock eyes, and Alfred fully expects him to scold him or even _hit_ him for what he has done, but Dad just traps him in the warmth of his arms for a few brief seconds before asking, "Are you okay? Are you hurt in any way?"

Alfred starts sobbing all over again, but into Dad's sweater this time. "I-I'm s-sorry!"

Dad pats his back and brushes his hair away from his forehead. "Sorry for what?"

"M-Mattie got hit by a car because of me."

Dad pulls away from their hug to furrow his brows at him and says, "We'll talk about this later…Francis, wait here with him for a minute."

Papa's arms replace Dad's, and even though Alfred is almost certain he's going to be kicked out of the house as soon as Dad finds out how serious this all is, he's relieved he gets to have one last hug before they send him away forever.

"Matt was just trying to protect me, Papa. I'm so s-sorry."

Papa clicks his tongue at him and tries to shush him by saying, "It was an accident…A terrible, terrible accident."

"No, but it's my fault."

"It's no one's fault."

"No, it is," Alfred tries to explain. Dad and Papa clearly don't know the full story yet, but once they do, they'll understand why he doesn't deserve their affection any longer.

Since Papa has to stay strong for him, he stays pretty calm and collected until Dad comes back out to join them several minutes later, more ashen-faced than earlier. Alfred can see the tears pooling in his eyes and how he's trying to suppress them with all of his might.

"Arthur? What did you find out?" Papa asks, standing beside Dad and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Dad angrily swipes at his eyes and hoarsely says, "He's paralyzed from the waist down…"

And now Papa begins to cry as well. "Permanently?"

"We won't know until he tries physical therapy and rehabilitation," Dad mumbles, weakly hugging Papa. "But he's breathing and has a pulse and that matters more to me than anything else at the moment."

Papa nods, but tears are still leaking from his eyes and dribbling down his stubbly cheeks. "Yes, of course…Is he awake?"

"He's on very strong pain medication at the moment, so no, but we can sit with him whenever you're ready."

"Let's go now. I can't bear to think of him being alone."

Dad agrees, but then he turns to Alfred and frowns. "Come, Alfred. We're not upset with you, but you do have to tell us what happened."

Alfred chokes on another loud sob. "I c-can't. You'll hate me."

Dad steps over to him, puts both hands on either of his shoulders, and says very firmly, "We could never hate you. You're our child."

Papa agrees and adds, "When times are tough, family sticks together."

 _It's all your fault._

And so, Alfred walks onto the unit with his parents, and although telling the story makes his chest hurt and his stomach contract, he tells them everything and lets it pour out of his heart until he's left feeling cold and hollow by Matthew's bedside.

Matthew…

He's so still and frail in this bed, but the rise and fall of his body as he breathes is reassuring. Papa whispers French lullabies to him while Dad watches his vitals on the monitor to feel more convinced that this isn't the end of the world.

He's asleep for now, which is good because Alfred doesn't know if he'll be able to look at him once he's awake.

And when they have all calmed somewhat, Dad regards Alfred with a stern gaze and says, "What you did was very reckless and foolish, but you already know that. Your papa and I understand this was an accident…You shouldn't blame yourself. We'll discuss it at greater length when Matthew wakes up."

"But Mattie isn't going to be able to walk because of what I did! Stop being nice to me and just yell at me for being an idiot! Tell me what a bad kid I am and how you never want to see me again because all I do is ruin everything and cause problems!" Alfred cries, storming out of the hospital room, off the unit, and all the way to the elevators. He shouldn't be shouting when Matthew needs his rest—that's one more crime he can add to the list.

 _It's all your fault._

 _It's all your fault._


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! Thanks for being so patient with waiting for this update. I'll be home in three weeks so updates should start becoming more frequent then.

Enjoy and please leave a review! I'd really appreciate the feedback.

* * *

"Should I go, or will you?"

"I will, but in a few minutes—it'll give him time to calm down."

"I think he'll need more than a few minutes for that," Francis says as he smooths out the creases in Matthew's bedsheets, and Arthur feels a tightness in his chest that won't go away no matter how hard he tries to ignore it.

They are powerless. Try as they did to keep their children safe, there was no way they could have protected Matthew from this. They couldn't have known...

Then again, if Francis had not let them out of the house—if he had caught them in their lie before it was too late...

Arthur swallows thickly and stares down at Matthew's pallid face. There's a crisscrossed cut on his bottom lip and a black and blue contusion on his temple, but those injuries will heal quickly. He is more preoccupied with considering the deeper damage—the scars that will not be physical but still just as painful, if not more so.

How will they all recover from this? Arthur isn't quite sure of the answer yet.

He carefully cradles Matthew's hand and lets out a trembling breath that seems to echo throughout the hospital room. "Matthew…"

" _Notre Père qui es aux cieux_ ," Francis hums. " _Que ton nom soit sanctifié_ —"

Arthur is quick to cut him off. "Don't. Please, don't."

"If there was ever a time to pray, it is now—for God's blessing."

"Stop."

"What's the harm in it?"

"It's not going to solve anything," Arthur hisses, standing up from the chair by Matthew's bed with his head in his hands. "Just stop it."

"I didn't mean to upset—"

"I'm not upset," Arthur lies, and it feels as though he is suddenly carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn't know how to make this better—he _can't_ make it better—and it's killing him.

He brushes past Francis and over to the door. "I'll be back."

" _Mon amour_ …Wait. You always do this."

"Do what?"

"Run off when you don't want to feel."

Arthur scoffs and keeps walking. What's he supposed to do? Lie down on the floor and cry? That's not what Matthew needs right now. He needs them to be parents—to be strong and take charge. Arthur needs to be calm and collected—to lead by example—and that's exactly what he plans to do.

And he's going to start with Alfred.

* * *

Thankfully, Alfred wants to be found and hasn't wandered too far off. Arthur finds him sitting on the curb outside of the emergency department where the ambulances are parked. His knees are drawn up to his chest, and it's hard to miss his unabating sobs.

He is still just a boy. Thirteen is so young—too young to be bearing this kind of guilt on his own. And yet, Arthur knows he needs to allow him time to grieve. Matthew's recovery will be a difficult and long journey, but so will Alfred's, of that he has no doubts.

Arthur silently sits down next to Alfred, guides him into his arms, and lets the boy cry himself out.

"I'm s-sorry, Dad."

"I know, love. No one blames you," Arthur promises him, "but it's all right to be upset—we all are."

"Matt is going to h-hate me," Alfred weeps, dropping his head into Arthur's lap. "He'll never want to see me again."

"That's not true. Matthew loves you, and he needs your help. The best thing you could do for him right now is to come back inside and be there for him."

"When he wakes up and realizes he can't walk—"

Arthur puts a hand on Alfred's head and frowns. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. He is alive and safe, and we should all be very grateful for that. When he wakes, he's going to be very confused and frightened. He'll want you there."

Alfred shakes his head. "He doesn't need me. He's got you and Papa."

"He'll need his brother as well. We're going to work through this together and that means we're all going to have to do our part," Arthur says as he wipes away some of Alfred's tears and offers him a gentle smile. "Agreed?"

Alfred lifts his head from Arthur's lap, looks at him with crimson eyes, and nods.

"Agreed."

* * *

As Matthew grumbles groggily to himself and begins to stir, Alfred must lean on the wall behind him to keep from keeling over with anxiety. If he puts his full weight on his feet, he is certain he will collapse. Matthew's accusatory gaze alone might be enough to make him lose all consciousness.

Papa leans over Matthew, strokes his forehead carefully as though he's made of glass, and whispers, "It's okay, _mon chou_. You're okay."

Matthew mumbles something incoherent in return and finally wakes in a nervous stupor, blue eyes darting between Papa, Dad, and the window in his hospital room. He squints, trying to recall how he ended up here, and immediately asks, "Where's Alfred? Is he okay?"

"He's to your right, love—hiding in the corner," Dad says, sounding a bit exasperated, but it's the good kind of exasperation—the weary, fond kind that Alfred knows is one of Dad's many implicit ways of showing affection. "He's just fine, but you've given us all a fright we won't soon forget."

Alfred freezes and breaks out into a cold sweat when his brother turns to face him. "H-Hi, Matt."

"Hi," Matthew says back, voice a little raspy from not having had any water to drink for a while. "You're okay."

"Yeah…You're the one we have to worry about right now," Alfred replies, and he immediately wants to hit himself for what he's said. He shouldn't have implied that there's something more seriously wrong with Matthew. He should've let Dad and Papa decide when to bring that up.

"I'm tired and everything is sore, but I'm okay to go home now…" Matthew assures, but a frown forms on his lips when he sees Dad and Papa exchange a concerned glance at one another. "Right…? Dad?"

Dad clears his throat and straightens up a little, preparing himself for what he's going to say and how he's going to say it.

Alfred can see him quickly shift from father-mode to doctor-mode, which is how he typically copes with problems, and frankly, Alfred doesn't think it's the wisest decision on his part. Matthew needs to be told what's going on in the words of a parent, and not through stuffy, clinical doctor jargon.

"Matthew, there's something—"

Dad doesn't get time to finish because that's apparently the moment when Matthew attempts moving his legs and realizes he can't.

"What—? What's wrong with me?"

"You sustained a spinal injury and—"

"I can't move," Matthew says breathlessly, touching his lap with quivering hands. "Dad, I can't move! What's wrong with me?"

"Please relax, love. You'll make yourself ill with stress. I'll explain everything once you've—"

It's no use reasoning with him. It only takes a couple of more seconds for Matthew's face to be flooded with tears and for him to be too overwrought to be spoken to.

Papa holds him close and tries to comfort him as Alfred stands a safe distance away and looks over at Dad, who appears to be at a loss.

"I'm sorry, Matt," Alfred whispers, but Matthew doesn't hear it because his crying drowns out all else.

The glass windows and doors of the ICU don't allow for much privacy, and so, Matthew's nurse and doctor are soon made aware of the state he's in and come in to try to help. Their efforts, however, turn out to be just as futile. No amount of honeyed words or consolations is enough to ease him.

There's a side-conversation between Dad, the nurse, and the doctor about whether they should give him some medication to calm him down, but after thinking about it for a while, Dad shakes his head and says it won't be necessary, and he turns out to be right.

And that's because Matthew eventually exhausts himself and falls back to sleep, head and torso still in Papa's arms. He's going to have to remain hospitalized for at least a few days to ensure his body is recovering and that his condition isn't deteriorating.

The more Alfred stares at him, the more painful it becomes to look at the bruises coating his brother's skin and how he's so pale that he nearly matches the color of his bedsheets.

"He needs his rest," Dad says softly when it's quiet in the room again aside from Matthew's tired breathing and the thrum of the cardiac monitor. "Francis, get something to eat with Alfred and then the two of you should go home and have a good night's sleep. I'll be here."

Papa frowns. "I don't want to leave him tonight. I'll stay. You two go on."

Dad doesn't look pleased, but after a minute of bickering, he begrudgingly surrenders. He puts a hand on Alfred's shoulder and leads him out of the hospital room without saying another word. It's dark out now, and Alfred's stomach is grumbling because he missed dinner. He would normally be in bed by now, but sleep is the last thing on his mind.

They get into the car, and before Dad puts the key in the ignition, he turns to Alfred to say, "I know it's well past our normal dinnertime now, but you must be hungry."

"I dunno. Don't feel like eating after everything," Alfred mumbles.

Dad doesn't say anything for a long moment, but then he musters a small smirk and asks, "Not even McDonald's?"

Alfred isn't able to smile back—not even a little. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"Dad, it's like ten o'clock."

"I know what time it is, and I know you would never pass up the chance to have chicken nuggets and chips."

"Fries, Dad."

"You know what I meant."

Alfred's pretty sure Dad does that on purpose—inserts the occasional Britishism just to rile him up, and Alfred still falls for the bait every single time. "You're gonna let me eat McDonald's this late? Who are you and what have you done with my real dad?"

"I'm peckish, and I think we can make an exception tonight."

"…You're bribing me because you want me to feel better. You're bribing me with McDonald's!"

Dad looks a little defeated for having been caught. "Clever boy...Don't tell your papa."

"You're not supposed to bribe your kids."

"That's right."

"But since you already said it, you can't take it back now," Alfred adds, allowing himself a tiny smile at long last. "Can I get the large fries?"

Dad turns the key and starts backing out of the parking space. "You can have whatever you'd like."

"A milkshake, too?"

"Yes, a milkshake, too."

* * *

Yeah, okay, something is seriously wrong with Dad.

Why else would he be voluntarily eating a Big Mac? Dad hates McDonald's. In fact, he often talks about feeling sick to his stomach just from walking into the restaurant. The smell alone is normally enough to make him gag, so what's he up to? Is it because of Mattie?

It's admittedly kinda cool that Alfred gets to do this with his father—it's not every day that he lets his guard down or does something reckless or improper. Alfred imagines this is what living in a parallel universe might feel like. Everything is the same and yet so different at the same time. In this universe, Dad lets him dunk his chicken nuggets in monstrous amounts of ketchup and doesn't even bat an eyelash or tell him that he's going to have to eat spinach and broccoli tomorrow to balance his diet. And well, Alfred could get used to this.

"How's your burger?" Alfred asks because he genuinely wants to hear Dad's reaction.

"I feel as though I could have an MI at any given moment."

Alfred has heard this abbreviation being thrown around in conversation enough to know what it means now. Myocardial infarction—heart attack. So, he supposes that means Dad isn't enjoying his food if he feels like he's going to die from it.

"You don't have to eat it, you know."

Dad takes another bite and wearily sets one arm on the table, not saying anything in response.

"Are you okay? Dad, you're acting really weird."

Dad mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _I need a drink_.

Alfred doesn't think it's meant for his ears, so he pretends not to have heard it and just sticks another fry in his mouth. "Will Mattie want to see me tomorrow? Maybe I should stay home."

"Nonsense. He'll want to see you."

"Are you—?" Alfred leaves his question dangling in the air because a fry suddenly goes down the wrong windpipe and he begins to cough.

As if by instinct, Dad leaps into action by coming to Alfred's side, standing him up, and patting his back firmly. "This is why you shouldn't eat and speak at the same time," he admonishes him.

Though Alfred's eyes water and his face becomes red, he's fine after several more seconds. He takes a sip of his milkshake and tries to brush off the hands on his back to signal that he's okay.

And that's when Alfred notices how quickly Dad's heart is beating. They're standing close enough to one another that he can hear the pounding quite easily.

"Hey, it's okay," he says, looking into Dad's anxiety-packed eyes. "It's okay, right?"

Dad turns away, goes back to his seat across from Alfred, takes a quivering breath, and murmurs, "Yes, it's okay."

Laidback, fast-food-loving Dad isn't as awesome as Alfred thought he would be. It isn't right. He's stressed, and eating a Big Mac won't help him. They should go home and sleep.

Suddenly, Alfred isn't hungry anymore. Even his milkshake fails to seem appealing any longer. He won't enjoy anything until Mattie is out of the hospital.

"Dad?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"I want to go home. I'm tired."

Dad consults his watch, scowls, and says, "Where is my mind? Of course, you're tired. It's well past your bedtime."

Ugh, when he puts it like that, it makes Alfred feel like a little kid. He's thirteen. He shouldn't even have a bedtime anymore, but Dad and Papa don't like it when he stays up past ten.

Dad clears their table, grabs the keys to the car, and they head out into the cool night air. Alfred can see a few twinkling stars in the sky, and he decides he has nothing to lose by making a wish on one. He thinks of a happy and grinning Matthew instead of the injured and frightened one cooped up in the hospital. Then, he shuts his eyes as hard as he can, furrows his brows, and whispers, "I hope you get better real soon, Matt."

He opens his eyes, gets into the passenger's seat, and nods off on the drive home.

* * *

" _Mathieu_ , _je suis désolé…"_

Francis has lost track of the time, but the moon is gleaming bright and Matthew's bed is cascaded in shadows. The boy ended up getting something to sedate him after all—he said some pretty harrowing things upon waking up once more after Arthur and Alfred had left. It's much easier to watch over him when he is asleep—when Francis doesn't have to answer daunting questions from him like "Why did this happen to me?" and "When will I be able to move?"

But what hurt Francis most was when Matthew let out a pitiful groan, gripped both of his limp legs through the sheets, and said, "I want to die."

Francis wants to believe this was simply said in a moment of weakness and distress and nothing more, and so, there's no need to worry Arthur by telling him what's been coming out of their son's mouth. Clearly, the child isn't thinking clearly, and they need to just let him blow off steam. He will be fine. With the help of the staff here and his prayers, it will all be okay, and Matthew will return to the sweet, charming boy he has always been.

So, why does Francis still feel like someone is continuously stomping on his chest?

He holds Matthew's hand tightly in his and hums to him. It brings Francis some temporary solace, but he has a sinking feeling that it isn't doing anything to aid Matthew. There is a part of him that feels as though he has failed as a parent despite the fact that this was an accident. It is an irrational voice in the back of his mind that won't go away.

Matthew's nurse tells Francis he should try to get at least a few hours of sleep, and she is kind enough to bring him a pillow and a blanket, but how does one rest when their child is suffering like this? Every thought that goes through his head just taunts him by asking, _how could you let this happen?_

He murmurs another prayer—begs God to heal his boy.

There is nothing else he can do aside from holding his son's hand and surrounding it with warmth.

* * *

Dad makes burnt toast and soggy scrambled eggs for breakfast, but for the first time, Alfred doesn't complain. He sits at the kitchen table and eats everything on his plate because he thinks it might help to get rid of the blank and broken look on Dad's face.

It doesn't.

Trying to pretend that everything is fine is beginning to take its toll on his father. He looks awful. He hasn't shaved, his eyes are wide and perpetually panic-stricken, his hair is somehow messier than usual, and he keeps tapping his fingers on the table.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

Dad forces a smile. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You don't have to act happy for me, you know…You can cry if you want, or yell, or whatever…"

"Don't be silly. Finish your breakfast so we can get going."

Alfred sighs and eats the rest of his toast with a frown. It doesn't matter what he says, Dad isn't going to listen. The only person who might be able to successfully lecture him is Papa.

But Papa already has too much on his plate to be concerning himself with Dad's deteriorating emotional state. The moment they step back into the hospital and make it into the ICU to visit Matthew, Papa pulls Dad aside and begins frantically saying to him things like _I don't know how to what to say to him anymore. He refuses to try to eat, he's depressed, and he gave the nurse a hard time this morning._

Dad purses his lips and replies, "I'll take care of it. Take a break and get some breakfast."

Papa runs a hand over his eyes and nods after a long moment. "Okay. Call me if something happens."

"Don't worry," Dad reassures him before stepping into Matthew's room, and Alfred trots in behind him.

Matthew is awake and sitting up, but he looks just as miserable as the rest of his family does. It's clear that he's been crying, and he somehow became even paler overnight.

"Good morning, love. I'm relieved to see you're up and feeling well enough to chat," Dad says with a smile that's a bit less strained than earlier. He presses a small kiss to Matthew's forehead and smooths his hair back. He checks the cardiac monitor and Matthew's IV before adding, "Your vital signs look promising. I'm sure you'll be discharged in a few days' time."

"I want to go home now," Matthew says quietly as more tears accumulate in his eyes.

"I know, poppet, but let's make sure you're well enough to safely come home first. And, if you want to recover, you need to eat and get your nutrients," Dad explains, gesturing to Matthew's abandoned meal tray. He pulls it closer so that it's hovering just above Matthew's lap and says, "Look, pancakes—your favorite—and here's a lovely orange as well as some strawberry yogurt."

"Not hungry," Matthew mumbles.

"We can't let this perfectly good food go to waste, lad. Come on—or else Alfred and I will have to feed you," Dad warns with a mischievous smirk.

Matthew glowers and shouts, "Papa!"

"Papa went out for breakfast," Alfred chimes in. "Dad's right, Matt, you've gotta eat. Can't miss the most important meal of the day…But if you don't want those pancakes, I'll eat 'em."

"Who said you could have them?" Matthew demands, appalled.

"Well, if you're just gonna throw them out—"

"No, I'm gonna eat them."

That trick always works, and Alfred doesn't miss the appreciative look Dad gives him a second later. Sometimes knowing how to get under his brother's skin comes in handy.

With a little teamwork, Matthew will be healthy enough to come home in no time.

Finally, Alfred sees a little glimmer of hope.

* * *

"I've seen cases of this type of trauma before, and it's hard to say if physical therapy will lead to improvement. It's a fifty-fifty chance. With young patients like Matthew, the odds are sometimes better, but still, making any promises at this point wouldn't be wise."

"I understand," Arthur replies. He wants to have hope, truly, but he also doesn't want to get his hopes up too much. Working in medicine has trained him to expect the worst and to be prepared for it. "Thank you for your help."

Matthew's doctor nods and hands him a list of outpatient resources. "Here are some local support groups and good places to seek counseling—should he need it, or, should you need it. These types of accidents often affect the entire family…"

Arthur reluctantly takes the piece of paper and stows it in a folder along with Matthew's discharge forms. The boy starts physical therapy in four weeks, and until then, he'll mostly be resting and relying on Arthur and Francis more than ever before, which is going to be a hard transition for all of them. Until Matthew gets better at navigating a wheelchair and getting himself in and out of it, he's going to be needing constant care.

Sending him to school is now out of the question. They'll either need to enroll him in online classes, get a tutor, or homeschool him themselves, but given their work schedules, a tutor seems like the most likely solution.

Arthur has taken the next three weeks off of work so he can devote all of his time and energy to helping Matthew through the very first stages of his recovery. Still, someone has to always be home to care for the boy from now. Francis doesn't feel confident enough to do it as of yet, and he has already said that it's out of the question for Arthur to close his practice.

So, Arthur has suggested they look into getting Matthew a caregiver who could be with him in the mornings while they're at work. However, Francis isn't too fond of that idea either.

What else can they possibly do though?

They decide to push those decisions off until a later date. They can argue about it when the boys aren't around to hear. Somehow, they'll make it work. They have to.

And the moment they get Matthew back into the house, everyone turns to Arthur. They wait for his directions. As the doctor of the family, he is expected to know how to handle this, except he's not an orthopedic surgeon or even a neurologist. He does not specialize in spinal injuries and how to treat them. Of course, he knows a few of the basics, but not enough to call himself competent, especially not when this concerns his own son.

He's unsure. He's afraid he'll somehow hurt Matthew or compromise his road to recovery, but there is a great deal of pressure on him to act, and so, he does, even though he second guesses himself every step of the way.

He helps Matthew in and out of bed, carries him up and down the stairs with Francis's assistance, changes his clothes, gives him his pain medications, helps him maneuver out of his wheelchair and onto the toilet every time he needs to use the bathroom, and tries to rebuild a sense of normalcy in their family, which is a lot to ask of one person. But he will do anything for his son, and he will make the necessary sacrifices without hesitation to make him happy and healthy again.

And it becomes increasingly evident that he's going to have to make his biggest sacrifice yet.

He permanently stops seeing patients, refers them to another doctor, and closes his office. He will be around to tend to Matthew 24/7. He will be his caretaker.

He makes the decision without Francis's approval because he knows his husband would never agree to it. Deep down, Arthur knew this was coming from the moment they learned of the extent of Matthew's injuries.

"You didn't have to do this! We could have hired someone," Francis fumes when he finds out, beside himself with anger for being kept out of the loop. "How could you be so foolish? We should have agreed to a solution together! You should have talked to Matthew as well!"

"It's finished, and it had to be done. We both knew that, Francis. There's nothing else to be said," Arthur says, devoid of emotion, even when Francis swears at him in French and throws a tea-towel at him in his rage.

"Y-You idiot!"

Matthew is equally upset, as he feels personally responsible despite how Arthur tells him multiple times that it's all right and that he doesn't have to feel guilty. It was ultimately his choice and no one else's. In two weeks' time, Matthew will be enrolled in his online courses, and they will have a tutor stop by the house three times a week to work with him one-on-one. Things will start to feel more manageable now that the big things have been sorted, surely.

…Of course, being a doctor is important to him.

But being a father always comes first.

* * *

You lose control of your legs and suddenly everyone thinks they can make decisions for you—that they know best and that they now need to protect you because you're just ill and don't know what you need.

Well, Matthew finds that incredibly unfair. Dad didn't have to give up his job for him, and his parents didn't have to declare that they want him to go for counseling. He just wants to be left alone to cope—to figure out how to go about living this new life. They are smothering him and don't know how to let go. If they give him a little freedom, he's not going to die from it.

But when he tried to tell this to Dad and Papa, they thought he was being too aggressive and argumentative and that it was clearly a sign of bottled up anger that he needs to work through with a counselor. Are people in wheelchairs not allowed to have opinions?

And yeah, so what if he's angry? He has a right to be angry. He's sick of having to stay quiet, and he's sick of everyone exerting their own will on him.

 _"Matthew, can you tell me why you're here today?"_

He frowns at his new counselor and glances at the clock to check how much longer he has to endure this before Dad takes him home. Ms. Elizabeta is nice by all measures but that doesn't mean he wants to be here with her. It's nothing personal.

"My parents think I'm depressed because I can't walk."

"Do you think you're depressed?"

"No."

"How do you feel about the accident? Would you like to talk about it?"

Matthew shakes his head and retreats into his shell. He shouldn't have to talk about this kind of stuff with anyone. It's too raw, and talking about it isn't going to make him feel better anyway. He doesn't want to talk. He wants to be able to get out of bed without help. That's what would really bolster his spirits. He wants to stop feeling like a burden. He wants Dad to go back to work.

He wants Alfred to stop being so nice to him and feeling like he needs to subject himself to some kind of retribution for what happened.

He wants Papa to stop making empty promises about how God is going to help him walk again.

But that's not the answer Ms. Elizabeta probably wants to hear, so he doesn't say anything at all and just waits for the clock to strike one o'clock, which marks the end of their session. At least he won't have to do this again until next week.

Maybe by then, he can convince Papa and Dad not to make him go. He could try faking sick, but that would be risky given that Dad is usually pretty good at seeing through those types of lies.

He doesn't want to make things difficult for anyone. In fact, he wants the opposite, but losing any autonomy he previously had has left him feeling a little bitter, and he wants his parents to see that.

He loves them, and because he loves them, he needs to be patient with them just as they are patient with him.

It's easier said than done.


	3. Chapter 3

Alfred hasn't left his room since he got home from school.

What's the point? He has torn his family apart single-handedly.

He debates locking himself in the closet and not coming out, but some of Mattie's clothes are in there, and that wouldn't be fair to him.

So, he thinks about running away instead. That seems like a reasonable thing to do given the trouble he's caused. He deserves to live in exile. He'll call Dad, Papa, and Mattie from a phone booth every now and then to let them know he's okay. Otherwise, they'll just worry. Or maybe they won't.

They shouldn't worry about him. He's not worth their concern.

Matthew is at physical therapy with Dad, and then he has another counseling session after that, so the two of them won't be home for a while. Papa doesn't get out of work until five-thirty, which means he's on his own until then.

Now would be a good opportunity to run away. It would be at least two hours before anyone would notice he was gone.

…

He can't do it…He doesn't have the courage—not yet.

All he can do is curl up in bed and hate himself more and more with each passing minute for being so weak.

* * *

Matthew is making progress. He doesn't see it yet, but Arthur does, and it is welcome news.

The boy's arms are clearly getting stronger, and Arthur and Francis already have plans to make some extensive modifications to the house, which will be vital in getting Matthew to move around independently once more. They're going to install grab bars and railings in the bathroom and in the boys' bedroom. A proper bench in the shower and a hand-held shower head that can be adjusted accordingly will make a world of difference.

They've already replaced the kitchen table with one that is tall enough to accommodate Matthew's wheelchair, and they've gotten rid of the rugs and carpets in the house which tended to slow the boy down. All of the flooring has been painted with an anti-slip coating, and they've tried to make an environment that is as safe and accessible for him as possible. Having him in an upstairs bedroom is a problem, so they plan to redesign the downstairs storage room. It will take time, and it will be much smaller than the room Matthew currently shares with Alfred, but not needing to help the boy up and down the steps every day will be safer and better for the whole family.

But although both Francis and Arthur feel like they're moving in the right direction and doing all they can, that doesn't mean it is easy. Oftentimes, their relationship suffers the damage.

With Arthur devoting all of his time to caring for Matthew and Francis being at work for most of the day, they don't have nearly as much free time to spend together as they once did. During the evening hours when Arthur used to catch up with Francis, he now uses that time to help Matthew in the shower, makes sure he gets changed into his pajamas, and gets him into bed.

And after that's all done, it's often time for Arthur and Francis to go to sleep as well, which means that sometimes the only words that are exchanged between the two of them throughout the course of an entire day are "hello" and "goodnight."

There's also Alfred.

They have a second son—sometimes they must remind themselves of this because Alfred has become so quiet and docile since the accident that both Arthur and Francis are guilty of occasionally overlooking him. He is behaving completely unlike himself, and that should be a big warning sign for them, but they're both too absorbed with other things to realize it.

If Alfred isn't saying anything or complaining, then he must be fine, right? If he had a problem he would come to them, right?

Right?

Wrong.

The first red flag they get is a letter from Alfred's school saying that the boy is failing biology.

Instead of taking this as a lesson that they need to spend more time with him and be more involved in his academic life, they do something that neither of them is proud of—they scold him more than is necessary and use him as an outlet for all of their frustrations.

"As if we don't have enough to deal with at the moment!" Francis says, raising his voice when he shouldn't. "Alfred, you have one job—to be a good student. Can't you do that one thing for us?"

Alfred bows his head as he sits before them on the couch, looking pitiful. He doesn't have anything to say in his defense. He just sits there and takes it.

"You're grounded—again. You can forget about going on your computer or playing your video games. From now on, you're going to be utilizing that time for your studies," Arthur decides, absently rubbing his brow. He's beginning to get frequent stress-induced migraines.

Honestly, out of the entire family, Matthew seems to be the one who is coping best with the situation, and meanwhile, he's the only one going to counseling.

"Think about the family, Alfred. We have so much going on right now. This is not the time to start seeking attention!" Francis continues.

"I'm not trying to get attention...It's just hard to study and do the homework cause—"

Francis cuts him off. "No excuses, young man. You're going to do your work, and that's final."

Alfred sheds a few tears and gets sent to his room, and the moment he's upstairs and out of earshot, Arthur collapses into an armchair, massages his head, and groans.

"We had to be firm with him, or he would not have listened. This nonsense needs to stop. He is too old to be playing these games," Francis says, trying to justify how they've been treating the boy.

"He's still a child. He's going to make mistakes. Perhaps we were too hard on him…"

"At least he will take our message to heart now."

Arthur lets out an unhappy hum of thought, unconvinced.

…

" _Dad!"_

Matthew needs something.

He blinks his eyes tiredly, gets to his feet, and hurries up the stairs—already forgetting why they were upset with Alfred and why he felt some regret over his punishment.

* * *

"I can do it."

"You'll lose your balance and fall. Let me help you."

"No, I can do it myself!" Matthew shouts, and he's surprised by the sharpness of his own voice. He rarely yells, and he wouldn't dare speak like this to his parents under ordinary circumstances, but somehow, this anger erupts out of him without his permission.

Maybe it's because he can hear the sound of water running from the bathroom down the hall—Alfred's taking his nightly shower—and he is envious that he can't get up and manage the same basic functions everyone else can. Dad had to help him shower an hour ago, and although this is his new life and he needs to get accustomed to it, he still finds it incredibly degrading that he's being treated like a toddler.

"Matthew, don't use that tone with me," Dad cautions, becoming stern.

"I'm sorry…It's just too much."

Dad frowns, and Matthew quits fighting with him. He lets his father guide his left leg into his flannel pajama bottoms, and when he moves to the right one, Matthew closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable…

3..2..1, here it comes…

"What's this?" Dad asks, referring to a long, ugly cut on the side of Matthew's right thigh. The skin around it is inflamed and glowing bright red.

Matthew chews on the inside of his cheek and mumbles, "I slipped while trying to get out of bed."

"When did this happen? Why didn't you call me to help you?"

"This morning—you were still asleep. I didn't want you to worry."

Dad draws his brows together and inspects the cut with another deep frown. "Not telling me makes me worry even more. Why were you trying to get out of bed?"

"Because I wanted to get up like a normal person," Matthew says a bit aggressively.

"I said not to use that tone with me."

"…Sorry…I just want to be able to do things without having to call somebody every time."

Dad sighs, helps Matthew sit on the edge of his bed, and says, "I know you do, but you're not ready to do certain things on your own just yet. When you've sufficiently recovered and your papa and I have made the necessary changes to the house, then we'll stop hovering so much, all right?"

He has a point, and so Matthew nods his head because he doesn't want to seem like the unreasonable one. If in several weeks' time, Dad still insists on dressing him, then they can have this argument again, but until then, Matthew will heed his orders. He knows he was in a major accident and has to rest and give his body time to gain back some of its strength, but he's getting tired of waiting.

"Let's get this cut cleaned up and bandaged," Dad says, and then he goes off to get some supplies from the bathroom.

Matthew knows that when Dad comes back, he'll do some more fretting and lecturing, but he'll let his father get it out of his system and won't keep up the resistance. Dad seems like he's pretty worn-out in more ways than one, and Matthew doesn't want to give him more reasons to be stressed.

While Dad is putting an antibiotic ointment on the cut, Matthew notices some things about him that he hasn't been all that aware of lately because he's been busy trying to maintain whatever dignity he feels he has left.

The skin under Dad's eyes is a dark shade of indigo, his cheeks are flushed, he hasn't shaved in several days, and his shoulders are now permanently squared and tense.

 _He's like this because of you_ , Matthew thinks.

His father secures the final bit of medical tape needed to keep the new dressing for his cut in place and murmurs warmly, "Goodnight, love. Don't stay up too late—you have physical therapy in the morning."

"Okay, thanks."

"And please call me if you need something."

"I will."

Dad tucks him in, hands him the book he's been reading ( _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_ by Mark Haddon), turns on the lamp on the bedside table for him, and then makes his way out, quietly shutting the door, but not all the way.

The water in the bathroom stops running—Alfred will be back soon.

Matthew opens the book to where he last left off and feels a giant, unrelenting lump of heartache climb up into his throat.

" _Sometimes we get sad about things and we don't like to tell other people that we are sad about them. We like to keep it a secret. Or sometimes, we are sad but we really don't know why we are sad, so we say we aren't sad but we really are."_

He can hear Dad's retreating footsteps in the hallway, and each one makes the lump feel bigger and bigger.

His father is remarkably good at keeping secrets.

* * *

Francis is a man who likes his beauty rest, and, as such, he tends to sleep through the night without waking up or tossing and turning. Give him a soft pillow and throw and he will gladly snooze for nine hours or longer.

However, there are exceptions to this rule. He has a subconscious intuition that can rouse him when necessary, and there are usually two possible scenarios that trigger this: 1) one of the boys is either in distress or ill, 2) Arthur is either in distress or ill.

So, when his eyes snap open at two o'clock in the morning, Francis immediately starts looking for the culprit. He can't hear any noise from the boys' room. The door to his and Arthur's bedroom is slightly ajar, as it always is throughout the night, and he can't see Alfred standing outside or hear either of the boys calling for him. They're both all right.

But then, he finally does hear a noise.

It's Arthur, groaning in his fitful sleep.

Francis is fully aware of the fact that his husband hasn't been sleeping well for the past couple of weeks. Granted, Arthur was never a great sleeper and has always been an insomniac, but things have gotten worse recently. He often falls asleep at odd hours of the night—sometimes as late as three o'clock—and when he does sleep, he mumbles incoherently and his body can't get comfortable enough to stay in one place for very long.

In fact, it's a surprise Arthur is sleeping in their bed tonight at all. Nowadays he tends to find his husband asleep on the living room couch or by his desk in their small study downstairs. He has also slept in the beanbag chair in the boys' room every time Matthew has complained of joint pain in his arms and has needed warm compresses to be wrapped around his wrists.

Francis can try, in vain, to argue with him and insist he go to bed at a normal, consistent hour, but Arthur will simply lie awake until late in the night anyway—body unable to relax until he's at the point of utter exhaustion.

And just like now, even when he does manage to sleep, it is not restful. Many times, it leaves him more fatigued than he originally was. It's even tiring to _watch_ him do this to himself.

Francis sighs and rolls over to face him. He's not sure what to do. If he wakes him, that'll potentially make things worse because he might not be able to fall back to sleep before dawn.

They likely wouldn't be in this situation if Arthur would just _talk_ to him—really talk to him, that is. If he would just get everything off his chest and share some of his feelings about all of this with him, he'd sleep better.

But instead, all he does is spend every waking hour worrying about Matthew. Francis is worried as well, of course, but that's not an excuse to start disregarding one's own health and mental wellbeing. Arthur hasn't said a word about how he feels after closing his practice. He hasn't complained—hasn't admitted that he misses his job and that being a full-time caretaker for Matthew is difficult. He has kept everything bottled up and out of sight, and now it's coming back to haunt him.

That said, Francis can't find the heart to be upset with him for this. He has done so much—taken such good care of their boy—that to chide him for anything seems like it would be a crime. He hopes that Arthur will confide in him in due time—when he's ready.

And until then, all Francis can do is support him as much as he can.

He wraps Arthur snugly in his arms, runs a hand through his hair, and places a kiss on his temple.

It's at times like these that he hopes Arthur knows he loves him very much.

* * *

" _You have twenty minutes left to finish the exam."_

Alfred stares at the two diagrams sketched out on the paper before him—it's a plant cell and an animal cell. He's supposed to label all of the parts, but he can't remember what a ribosome and chloroplast look like. Animal cells don't even have a chloroplast, right? He knows where the nucleus is—the giant round thing. That's simple enough. What do the mitochondria look like again?

He tried to study this time. He spent four hours sitting in front of his textbook last night, and he's pretty sure he saw this exact diagram in one of the chapters, but why can't he remember it? Everything seems like a blur now, and he wants to cry because he tried. He really, really tried. He wants to bring Papa and Dad a good grade, at least a B+, but now he can't remember a darned thing.

And then, before he can stop himself, he bursts into tears and sobs over his test paper, hyperventilating. His whole body feels shaky, and it feels like the world is closing in on him.

His classmates all turn to face him. His teacher gets up from his desk and comes over, looking concerned.

"What's wrong, Al? Are you feeling sick…? Hey, hey, don't be so upset. It's okay. Let's go outside and have a talk," his teacher suggests, patting his back reassuringly.

"I c-can't remember," Alfred says, breathing hard. He gets up from his chair and wipes a hand under his running eyes, but more tears replace the ones he attempts to dry.

His teacher tries to lead him out of the room, but he resists and shakes his head. Part of him still wants to finish the exam and label the ribosomes even though all of the students are staring at him, shocked.

"It's just a test, pal. It's okay. You can do better on the next one."

Alfred continues to hyperventilate, and suddenly, black splotches start to appear in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision.

The next thing he knows, he's lying on the cold, hard ground, and his teacher is telling another student to get the school nurse.

* * *

Matthew is ten minutes short of finishing his session when Dad suddenly leaves him alone with the physical therapist to take a phone call. It must be something important because normally when someone calls Dad at this time, he silences his phone and says he'll get back to them later.

When Dad comes rushing back in a moment later and says they need to go, Matthew knows it has to be serious.

Dad apologizes to the physical therapist, helps Matthew back into his wheelchair, and then they immediately make their way to the car.

"What happened? Where are we going?" he asks as Dad helps him into the passenger's side and puts his wheelchair in the trunk.

"Alfred had a panic attack at school and fainted."

He feels a surge of worry run through his chest. "A panic attack?"

Dad nods and drives them to the school—the school Matthew hasn't been to since his accident. It feels weird to be here in this familiar parking lot…

They get to the front office, and a receptionist offers to escort them to the infirmary, but Matthew says he can show Dad the way. Oddly enough, he has missed these hallways.

They round the corner, enter the nurse's office, and find Alfred sitting on a small couch, head bowed as he sips on some orange juice through a straw. He's clearly a bit startled, and his face is tear-streaked.

Dad squeezes Matthew's shoulder gently before leaving his side and going over to check on him.

The nurse comes over to shake Dad's hand and speak to him, and after their hushed chat, Dad goes straight into doctor-mode by taking Alfred's pulse, feeling his forehead, and looking into his eyes to see how glassy they are.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, brushing a soothing hand over Alfred's head. "I heard you felt a little overwhelmed during your exam."

Alfred swallows hard and visibly struggles to hold back more tears. "I-It was dumb…I'm feeling better now. I should go back to class."

Dad frowns and puts a hand on Alfred's shoulder to hold him still and keep him from standing up. "Hold on. If you're in a hurry to go back to class, then I know you must not be well. I'm taking you home."

"But I—"

"An afternoon to rest will be good for you," Dad interjects, and he signs Alfred out as soon as the nurse hands him the necessary form. "Keep drinking that juice."

"I'm not sick."

"Healthy children don't have panic attacks and collapse in class, but we can talk about this when we get home."

"Dad—!"

"I've already made my decision, Alfred," Dad says, leaving no room for argument. He exchanges some final words with the nurse and then they're off to the car again.

This time, Alfred sits in the passenger's seat where Dad can keep an eye on him, and Matthew gets helped into the backseat. It starts to rain as they're driving back home, and this adds to the gloominess they're already feeling.

The smell of the spring rain is somewhat nice though, and Matthew feels calmed by it. He looks at his brother and tries to lift his spirits by saying, "Hey, Al, I learned how to do a wheelie with my wheelchair."

Alfred lifts his head and grins. "Really?"

"You learned _what_?" Dad asks disapprovingly, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

"I wanna see," Alfred says, excited.

"No. Absolutely not. He is injured enough as is, Alfred," Dad huffs, and Matthew has to force down a laugh.

He spends a lot of time in his wheelchair, so, of course, he's been getting a bit creative with it. Skateboarding tricks have nothing on his wheelchair stunts.

Alfred rubs at his bloodshot eyes and says, "Let him live a little, Dad."

"Yes, let's have him break his neck as well while we're at it."

While Dad isn't looking, Matthew shoots Alfred a smile as if to say _'don't worry, I'll show you when no one's watching.'_

And Matthew finally gets to see Alfred smile back, shining teeth and all.

* * *

"Say 'ahh.'"

Alfred rolls his eyes but lets his mouth fall open. "Ahhhh."

Dad checks his throat for signs of infection and looks over his tongue to make sure he's well-hydrated. He wants to rule out the possibility of any real underlying illness before he officially concludes that a panic attack was the sole cause of Alfred's fainting spell. When he's satisfied, he lets Alfred close his mouth and says, "Your blood sugar and temperature are normal. Your heart and lungs sound fine. Your nose, ears, and throat are fine as well. Aside from some low blood pressure, you look perfectly healthy to me."

"Told you I wasn't sick," Alfred mumbles, leaning back against the couch cushions.

"However," Dad continues, ignoring the interruption, "you've never suffered from panic attacks before. Do you want to tell me what triggered it?"

"I don't know how it happened."

"Then why don't you tell me how you felt before you fainted instead?"

Alfred bites his lip and hugs his arms for safety. "I dunno…I felt like everything suddenly got really heavy and I couldn't breathe right."

"What were you thinking about before you started feeling that way?"

"I was thinking about the test and how I couldn't remember what to write for the diagrams. I was mad at myself because I know that diagram was from my textbook, and I studied it. I really studied hard, Dad, I promise," Alfred explains, and his chest starts to become heavy with emotion yet again as he recounts everything. "But I couldn't remember anything, and it was hard to focus. I read about the ribosomes and the chloroplast but I forgot it all…And then I thought about how disappointed you and Papa would be if I brought home another bad grade because you guys have a lot of other stuff to worry about, and I don't want to make you angry or worry or anything like that."

He's crying yet again. It's getting exhausting.

"Alfred," Dad says with a sad sigh. "You were anxious because you were worried about what your papa and I would think?"

Alfred nods.

Dad pulls him into a hug and murmurs, "We just want you to try your best, love. We don't want you to make yourself ill. If you've been having trouble focusing, and you've been feeling anxious, then you should have said something."

"I tried to tell you guys, but you just yelled at me and sent me to my room."

Dad's expression quickly becomes one of remorse. "I'm sorry, Alfred. Your papa and I should have been more willing to listen. We made a mistake, but now we're going to remedy that by getting you the right help so you don't have to feel anxious anymore, okay?"

"Okay."

"I think it'd be a good idea for you to start seeing Matthew's counselor for a few sessions."

"Do I have to? What if I don't have any more panic attacks?"

"I think it would help a great deal, so let's at least give it a try, all right? And if it doesn't help, you don't have to go."

It seems like a fair deal, so Alfred nods his head and absorbs the comfort of Dad's hug for another few seconds before he is released.

"Now that we've sorted that, why don't you go upstairs and take a nap?"

Alfred scrunches his nose up at the thought. "I'm not a baby."

"You fainted. You should rest for a few hours."

There's no use in fighting because Alfred knows he isn't going to win. He obediently goes up to his and Matthew's room, lies down, and realizes he was, in fact, quite tired because he dozes off no more than ten minutes later. Dad checks on him at one point, and Alfred feels him drape a blanket over his body before going right back to sleep.

At last, he feels somewhat at peace.

* * *

"So, he's going to be okay?"

"Yes, he'll be fine. We should have seen this coming. He's not coping well. We should have started sending him for counseling sooner," Arthur tells Francis later that night when he gets home from work. "We should have known as soon as we found out he was having trouble in class."

"Well, at least everything is under control now," Francis says as Arthur sets the kettle on so they can both have a cup of tea together—something they haven't had time to do as of late. "Since we're on the topic of coping, there's something else we should talk about."

Arthur plops a teabag into each of their mugs and raises a brow. "What?"

"I'm worried about you."

"About me?"

"Yes," Francis confirms with a small scowl. "Don't act so surprised. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You look like you've aged by ten years."

"Wonderful. Thank you for making that observation. My self-esteem is through the roof now."

"Can you be serious about this?"

Arthur turns his back to Francis and closes his eyes. He's fine. He's made his choices and he's going to live with them. There's nothing else to it.

"You _cannot_ keep looking after _Mathieu_ seven days a week. This has to stop. You're miserable."

"I'm taking care of him on my own just fine."

"I'm not doubting that, but you're not taking care of yourself, _mon cher_ , and that's not all right," Francis says before putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I know not being able to work is hurting you, and it's okay to say it to me. You don't have to feel like you have to protect everyone or that you're doing a disservice to _Mathieu_ by admitting that you need a break or that you want time to do other things."

Arthur keeps his eyes shut, so he doesn't have to see Francis's beseeching eyes. "Matthew comes first."

"It's okay to put yourself first sometimes. Besides, you can't do this for him forever. He is already starting to do some things on his own. Take a step back. I think he's ready…If you can find something with flexible hours we could alternate schedules, and I could be here more often to lend a hand and drive him to physical therapy. He's with his tutor most afternoons anyway…We could make it work," Francis assures, bringing a hand up to rest against Arthur's cheek. "Please, _mon amour_."

 _Please let me get through to you this time._

But Arthur pulls away to turn off the burner on the stove as the kettle starts screeching, and the moment of persuasion is ruined. "No, we've already discussed this, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't bring it up again."

 _Stubborn as always. It's going to take a few more tries. Be persistent with him._

Arthur stirs some sugar into his tea, adds a bit of milk into his mug, and walks out of the kitchen to brood, leaving Francis on his own.

So much for having tea together.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Thank you all for being so patient with this fic. Here's the final chapter at long last, and I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you again to the anon who requested it. If you'd like to stay updated on what's going on in my life and when you can expect new updates from me, you should check out my tumblr under the same username as my fanfiction username (mandelene) and follow me.

Stay wonderful, everyone.

* * *

There are some things he can't talk about because where would he begin?

It would make Francis uncomfortable. Some of his thoughts are too terrible to state aloud and shouldn't be brought to light. They need to stay hidden in the corners of his mind, where they can't harm anyone.

For example, he sometimes thinks about how different things would be if Matthew hadn't survived the accident. Arthur doesn't know why this happens, but there are moments when he will be watching Matthew eat his dinner or brush his teeth and it won't feel real. It will feel like the boy sitting before him is a phantom—like his survival was some kind of odd stroke of luck that shouldn't have happened.

He will consider what Matthew's absence from their family would be like, and it is a sick, twisted thought because Matthew is alive and well and _real_. He's okay. They're all going to be okay.

So why does his mind keep flickering back to these dark images? To thoughts of a world that isn't reality? To a world where Matthew is dead and he has one child and must live with the unbearable grief for the rest of his life?

 _Yes, he's alive, but he can't do anything for himself anymore. What kind of life is that? What if he would have been better off—?_

He doesn't let himself go any further than that. It's too upsetting.

So, his body reluctantly wakes in the middle of the night, and he finds himself shivering from one of the usual cold sweats he has become accustomed to. He groggily rubs away at the goosebumps on his left arm and looks at the clock on the bedside table—3:26 AM.

Francis is still curled up on his side and fast asleep, blissfully unaware of everything. Good.

Arthur pulls the duvet up to Francis's waist because it has somehow pooled at his knees and watches the slow rise and fall of his chest. Things were so much simpler a few months ago. And now? What are they doing? Walking on a tightrope of uncertainties, that's what.

He will not sleep tonight.

* * *

Following a routine has made things easier. It makes Matthew feel like there is still some kind of structure in his life—some kind of meaning worth fighting for and getting out of bed for.

And his favorite part of his routine is going on a stroll through the park every day after breakfast. The fresh air, the bird-watching, and people-watching—it reminds him that he's a part of something bigger. The sense of community is nice, especially since he stopped going to school, so going to the park makes him feel connected with people again, even if he often never talks to anyone there and only makes chats with Dad as they make their way around the lake.

He thinks Dad enjoys it, too, because he always seems a little less stressed after a good walk. Honestly, it'd probably be safe to assume Dad needs the trips to the park more than he does.

He comes to this conclusion on a Tuesday morning when every other kid is in school and he's having his wheelchair pushed by Dad down the sandy path leading to the lake. Most of the people in the vicinity are clearly around retirement age and are just spending some time bathing in the sun, responsibility-free. There are also a few mothers with their infant children or toddlers who are too young for school roaming about.

So, what a sight he must be—thirteen-years-old and being wheeled around like one of these babies. It's a little humiliating at first, but the farther they walk, the less he dwells on it. He doesn't want any pity, and he doesn't want to attract any stares, but they're inevitable.

"Do you want to put on your jacket? It's a bit breezy," Dad asks while he is watching two squirrels chase each other up a tree over an acorn.

"No, I'm okay for now, thanks…Are we going to the store after this to buy the headphones Papa wanted to—?"

Dad's not listening, so Matthew follows his gaze and sees that he's staring intently at a runner sitting on a bench a short distance away from where they are. The man's head is tossed back, and there's an expression of pain on his face. He's middle-aged and clutching at his white, sweat-soaked t-shirt. It seems he sat down to take a break from his jog, but he really doesn't look well at all.

"Is that man okay?" Matthew asks.

"No, I don't think he is…I'm going to have a word with him. Wait here," Dad instructs, but Matthew follows after him anyway, just as curious if not more so.

Now that they're closer, Matthew can see how pale the runner is and how his hands are trembling. His eyes are squeezed shut, and he lets out a small groan of complaint, not noticing their presence.

Dad carefully stands in front of him, squeezes his shoulder to rouse him, and asks, "Sir? Are you all right? Would you like me to call an ambulance?"

At the word _ambulance_ ,the man's eyes grow wide with fear, and he sluggishly shakes his head. Then, no more than five seconds later, he mumbles, "My chest," and slumps forward, nearly falling off of the bench.

Dad's practiced hands catch him, stopping him from collapsing face-first and potentially knocking his teeth out. He cautiously lays the man's doll-like body across the bench, raises two fingers to his neck to find his pulse, and presses an ear to his chest to check if he is breathing.

Then, Dad snaps his head around, sees that Matthew is right next to him, and says, "Call 911, please."

While Matthew starts hastily dialing, Dad swears quietly under his breath and starts CPR. It's a little frightening to watch, and Matthew isn't sure whether he should be looking or not. In the end, he chooses to look down at his paralyzed lap and steadies himself so he can talk to the 911 operator calmly and with confidence. He knows how to answer the operator's questions—he has been trained by Dad himself.

 _Explain where you are. Summarize what happened. Say the man is being resuscitated. Give the address. Wait for further instructions_ , he inwardly tells himself, and that's exactly what he does.

It occurs to him that just several weeks ago, someone did this same thing for him—cast aside their fear and called emergency services so that his life could be saved. Was it Alfred who called for an ambulance?

Dad pauses, sets two fingers on the side of the man's neck again and sits back on his heels with a relieved sigh. "We have a pulse…"

The man suddenly stirs a few moments later, bats his eyelashes, and starts to breathe again, but he is dazed and confused, to be sure.

"Don't move. It's okay. Help is coming," Dad promises him, pressing a firm hand against his shoulder to keep him still. "You had a cardiac episode. An ambulance is on the way. Just stay still. Everything's going to be fine."

 _Everything's going to be fine_ —words Dad only says when he really means it, and that's why they're very reassuring to hear.

The man can't speak or move even if he tried, but Dad isn't looking for a response. He just keeps talking in a steady voice and stays by the man's side. "They'll be here any moment now. My son, Matthew, will let us know when they're here. Just relax and focus on your breathing…"

Matthew sees the flashing lights at the gates to the entrance of the park, and then, the ambulance allows itself in and two paramedics hop out, stretcher at hand and ready. It's all a very smooth and calm process, and it's weird because Matthew feels, in a small, strange way, like he's looking at himself. This is what it must have looked like, right? He doesn't remember because he was unconscious until he arrived at the hospital, but this is probably the protocol that was followed. Paramedics lugged him onto a stretcher as well, and likely spoke in relaxed, easygoing tones even though he didn't hear a word. Alfred came along, too, from what he's been told.

"Thanks for your help, you two," one of the paramedics says to Dad and Matthew, bowing his head a little at them.

"We're happy to have been able to do something," Dad replies, and then, the ambulance drives off, and it's like nothing ever happened.

Matthew blinks his eyes, feels an inexplicable sadness claw at his heart, and jumps a little when Dad stoops down to give him a hug around the shoulders while he's still in his wheelchair.

"Well done, Matthew. Thank you."

"S-Sure. No problem."

"I know moments like that can be hard to witness, and it can be difficult to act, but you kept your composure. I'm proud of you."

"It's not like I did that much."

Dad shakes his head, disagreeing. "Calling for help is the single most helpful thing one can do."

"Yeah, I guess, but you were here, so that's why I wasn't too afraid."

"Give yourself a little more credit."

It's true—it wasn't as easy as Matthew thought it would be, so maybe a pat on the back isn't totally unwarranted. "Yeah."

"I think we've earned ourselves a sit-down by the lake, and then, we can get the shopping we needed to get done out of the way. What do you say to stopping by the bakery later?"

"The one with the good macarons?" Matthew asks, voice hopeful. He loves that bakery.

"Yes, that one. We should stop by and pick up a few treats on the way home."

"Okay, but we have to hide the hazelnut macarons from Papa because last time he ate them all and didn't share."

Dad laughs and runs a hand through his hair, winding down now after the whole scene. He takes his place behind Matthew and starts pushing his wheelchair again, even though they both know Matthew could very well move it himself because he's strong enough. "Yes, I remember. In that case, I'll allow you to ration them out accordingly so that justice prevails and no one is denied their chance at a hazelnut macaron."

* * *

Matthew is different now. Alfred isn't sure how to explain it. It's not a physical attribute that's visible to the eye. It's more like a solemn kind of maturity. The ways he talks, acts, and even laughs has changed—in a good way.

Perhaps it's the counseling that has changed him, but Alfred has been attending sessions with Ms. Elizabeta for a while and he doesn't think he's a new person. He still makes a mess on the kitchen counter when he pours himself cereal in the morning or makes a sandwich. He slacks on his math and history homework and puts it off until the last minute.

But Matthew isn't like that. He's more grown-up somehow. Two days ago, he started getting himself out of bed on his own and maneuvering his way into the shower without having to call for help. He's in a wheelchair and yet he's becoming more independent and self-sufficient than Alfred has ever been while able-bodied.

Alfred feels like he has a lot to learn. Ms. Elizabeta often has warned him about thinking negatively about himself and tying everything he does to Matthew's accident. He's supposed to stop himself, take a deep breath, and count to ten when he thinks bad thoughts about that day and how responsible he was for it.

His relationship with Matthew is inarguably frayed. Talking to his twin doesn't seem the same anymore because Alfred isn't able to mention certain topics. He worries that if he mentions school, or his teachers, or even a classmate, Mattie will feel bad about needing to be homeschooled and get depressed and upset.

Though Ms. Elizabeta has told him he doesn't need to censor himself, that's easy to say when you're not the one who nearly killed your brother. She can't possibly understand the stuff going through his head, and he slips and tells her this during a session. It comes out as a whispered, "You wouldn't get it."

Ms. Elizabeta lets his words sink in and nods. "You're right, Al, but that doesn't mean I can't try to help."

Alfred thinks his comment will get him in trouble, especially when she calls Dad in to talk to him in private after that session. Alfred leaves the room and wants to eavesdrop, but not much can be heard through the thick wooden door. Maybe Ms. Elizabeta doesn't want to counsel him anymore because he hurt her feelings.

To his surprise, that's not the case.

Dad comes out of Ms. Elizabeta's office with bloodshot eyes and a rasp in his voice.

"What happened?"

Dad blinks at him three times in succession and purses his lips to hide the fact that they're quivering.

"Something that should have happened sooner."

Alfred will discover from Papa later that it's been determined that Dad needs to start going for sessions as well, but with a therapist who deals with adults.

Apparently, it's because Alfred has been blabbing too much in his own sessions about how tired and sad Dad always is. He got him in trouble.

For some reason, he feels good about this—like he helped Dad instead of hurting him.

It is the one thing he doesn't feel any guilt over.

* * *

"Matthew told me about what you did in the park today."

"Mmm. I did what I could, which wasn't very much…"

Francis rolls over in bed so that's he's encroaching upon Arthur's side, runs a gentle hand over his terse shoulder, and takes a nosy peek at the book Arthur is reading—something about some experimental drug that might someday be used to treat chronic migraines. Typical.

"Don't you see that this is an omen, _mon cher_?"

"What omen?"

"That man falling ill in front of you—it's a sign that you need to go back to work."

Arthur gives an aggravated hiss and sets his book down on his chest to glare at Francis properly. "If you really want me out of the house, then just say so."

"Don't start putting words in my mouth. You know that's not how I meant it, and I'd like to discuss this calmly rather than fight with you again."

"If you didn't want to argue, then you shouldn't have brought it up."

"Arthur, I'm sure the therapist would agree that—"

"No. I'm not getting dragged into this conversation."

"Too late, you're already knee-deep in it," Francis continues, instinctively leaning back a little when he sees the growing anger and red flush creep up Arthur's face.

He needs to try a different tactic, and luckily, he has one up his sleeve.

"You're being selfish. Think of how many lives are being put at risk because you're not utilizing your skills to the fullest. Your patients need you, Arthur, or else they'll get stuck with some clueless fool who will kill them—someone who can't even cure a simple stomach ache if they tried. People rely on you. You swore to serve them to the best of your ability, need I remind you? When you graduated from medical school…Does the Hippocratic Oath ring any bells?"

Arthur gives him a look— _the_ look—and frowns. "How do you know about that?"

"I did some research. Contrary to popular presumptions, I am capable of running an online search."

"How shocking. Congratulations on this major, twenty-first-century achievement."

"I'm trying to be deep and profound. At least allow me the courtesy to have my moment. What kind of English gentleman are you?"

Arthur snorts. "Not a very good one, clearly."

"Stop talking," Francis shushes, getting more and more passionate about this. The fervor in his voice swells. "Hippocrates's Oath, which you swore by at some point in your studies or career, states, 'I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.'"

Arthur raises his hand to interrupt and says, "If I may—I'd like to point out that what you're quoting is a modernized version of the Hippocratic Oath for physicians. I recited the classical one, which differs from what you've apparently decided to memorize."

Francis sighs and rolls his eyes. All of that reading and research he did has been wasted on this old oaf. "My _point_ is that the general idea remains the same. You have a duty to serve people unless you're physically incapable of carrying out those duties. It's the duty of _care_ , and you're tarnishing it as we sit here and debate it."

"My, my, you really have been looking into this," Arthur says, trying to placate Francis but still sounding somewhat disinterested.

"So, will you consider opening a practice again or at least working at a clinic?"

"No."

" _Mon Dieu_ , why are you doing this to me?"

"Just let it go, please."

"No, you don't see it, Arthur, but I do. You're a happier person when you're helping others—and don't even try to deny it. You thrive off of it. Even what happened today—I'm sure part of you was glad to be back in your usual role."

"Actually, I was wondering when it would be over so that I could continue having a peaceful walk with my son."

"Arthur."

"Francis. I'm glad we both know each other's names."

Francis turns scarlet this time, stands up out of bed, and balls his hands up into fists. "Snap out of it, _you idiot_! I look at you, and I see an emptiness in you—you're not the man I married when you're not doing what you love, and I can't stand it any longer! Matthew will be fine without your doting now. Hasn't he proven that to you yet? Think about yourself! Think about our marriage and your husband and all those people out there who are waiting for someone to bring them relief—to let them know they'll be all right. Don't you see how important that is? You're just going to keep throwing it all away?"

Arthur stands up as well and makes his way for the bedroom door, trying to leave, but Francis quickly sidesteps in front of him and stares those petulant green eyes down. "You know I'm right. Stop doing this to yourself. Stop walking around like you're in some kind of purgatory."

Arthur stares at the carpet and shakes his head. "I _can't_."

"Why not?"

 _"Because what if I'm not there when my son has a near-death experience again? What if the next time I'm gone—he dies?"_

That shuts Francis up for a moment.

But only for a moment.

"That's not going to happen. He's going to be fine."

"You don't know that for certain."

"You can't protect him from the whole world, Arthur. Are you going to follow him to college as well?"

"If I'm needed, yes."

"That's ridiculous. You need to allow him to live. If you don't, then what was the purpose of his recovery and all of the physical therapy he's been going through? Is it all just so you can shelter him even more?"

"No, of course not," Arthur sighs, dropping his head into his hands.

"Then loosen your hold a little and give him the second chance he's been fighting for. He's a strong boy—he can handle it. I know it pains you, but you need to do it."

Arthur doesn't respond for a minute, and then, Francis sees his shoulders shake and hears his breath hitch— _finally._

He's gotten through to him.

"Come here, _mon amour_. It's okay," he whispers, wrapping Arthur in his arms and squeezing him as he feels tears wet his shirt. "You can let go. He's ready."

"… _I'm afraid to_."

"I know. I'm a little afraid, too, but it needs to be done."

" _Okay_."

Francis smiles, presses a kiss into Arthur's hair, and holds him for as long as he needs. It's all going to be all right now, he's sure of it.

* * *

They're playing basketball in the driveway—just like before the accident—when Matthew brings it up.

"Alfred, when I got hit by that car…Were you the one who called 911?"

Alfred hops a foot in the air and grips their basketball like it's a life raft. "Why are you asking about that?"

"Sorry, I just wanted to know. It's been bugging me."

"…Yeah, I did."

Matthew leans back in his wheelchair and stares at the basketball net before turning his eyes to Alfred again. "Thank you."

"W-What do you mean?"

"That must've been really horrible. I was thinking about it the other day when I called an ambulance for that runner Dad was helping in the park. I didn't realize how hard it is to do…It's gotta be even harder when it's someone you know. So, thank you," Matthew explains.

"Thank you? You were the one who saved _me_. You jumped in front of me."

"You would've done it for me, too."

"You think?"

"I know," Matthew confirms, and there's a heavy beat of silence between them. "Now are you gonna hold that ball forever or are you going to let me finish this and beat you?"

Alfred's face lights up like a candle coming to life in pitch darkness. "Beat me? Yeah, right, bro. I'm not gonna go easy on you or anything."

"You'd better not. In a few months, I'll be running circles around you again, bro."

"Are those fighting words coming from _Matthew Bonnefoy-Kirkland_? Dang. I bet you could run circles around me even in your wheelchair," Alfred encourages him, cocking his head to the side. "Have you really been trying to walk in physical therapy now?"

"So far, I can just stand up for a minute or two on my own."

"That's still pretty good. You'll be moving again in no time."

"Maybe...Hopefully."

"And hey, no matter what, we're here for you—all of us. You know that, right?"

Matthew smiles softly. "Yeah, I know."

Alfred nods, then dribbles the ball with more vitality in his step than before. "Good. Don't forget it. Now prepare for defeat!"

Matthew successfully steals the ball and manages a long shot. "Take that, noob."

"Who're you calling a noob?" Alfred gasps, pretending to be upset. "But I'm impressed, dude, I didn't expect this from you."

"Me neither," Matthew admits with a small laugh, and there's a happiness in his heart that keeps growing by the minute.

He can handle this. It's not totally okay, but it's manageable, and he's not alone by any means. He's going to keep working hard to get better.

He's strong enough.


End file.
